


Strawberries and Mint

by Lascylla



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:52:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3980497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lascylla/pseuds/Lascylla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kommissar and Beca in the bathroom after the Bellas' Worlds victory. The German has a question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

“Ahh, little maus, are you finding victory to your liking?”

Beca started, looking up from the washbasin to meet the magnificent German's eyes in the bathroom mirror. “Uh, I mean yeah- of course,” she paused for a moment, sternly fixing her lips in only a _small_ smirk of triumph. “How are you finding being a loser? Got the hang of the language yet?” _Yes, score one for Beca!_

The brunette managed to keep her vigorous fist-pumping wholly inside her head. Just.

Kommissar frowned slightly, head tilted to the side.

Beca turned to face her nemesis, jumping in at the imposing woman's evident lack of comprehension. “Because you don't speak loser? Remember? I was saying... something, and you said 'I don't speak loser' and...” she trailed off, shifting uncomfortably under the cool grey stare of DSM's lead. _Why does she turn me into such a babbling loser?_

Kommissar, sensing weakness in her prey, slowly closed the distance between them. “Oh. _That._ Well, with eight languages already uhh – under my belt is the term, I believe? - one more should be no problem. Not that I expect I will need it for long. I assume your group will reassemble for next season? We will crush you then.”

Beca shifted back, subconsciously trying to find more personal space, and finding only the cool ceramic edge of the washbasin. “Next season? The Bellas are... over. Well, for me I mean. And the others. We've graduated, we're all moving on to the next stage of our lives.” _Babbling, Beca. You're babbling! Stop it!_

“Just because you will no longer be the Barden Bellas, that does not mean you cannot continue to compete,” Kommissar pressed further into Beca's space, looming over her with searching eyes.

Beca's breath caught in her chest, the feeling of being trapped, being prey, being vulnerable - and yet oddly secure - making her limbs heavy and her heart race. The German's eyes were wide and guileless, all mocking superiority vanished for the moment. Beca's neck ached from looking up at such an angle but she found herself unwilling to break eye contact. This moment was strange, pregnant. Potential here, racing across tingling skin and thudding with every heartbeat. 

Kommissar leaned down, her gaze trailing a hot line from eyes to lips, where she lingered for a moment.

Beca swallowed heavily, waiting, waiting, licked her tingling lips. 

“...a pity,” Kommissar murmured, her breath ghosting warm over Beca's cheek, before straightening abruptly and marching away, stride measured, posture perfect, as she exited the bathroom.

Beca snapped out of her stupor, anger and disappointment warring in her head, and called out after the blonde- “Well... your breath smells like... strawberries and mint!”

Beca dropped her head into hands and groaned. “God I suck at insults.”


	2. Chapter Two

_Strawberries, mint, cinnamon..._

_Wait. Why did she come into the bathroom if she wasn't going to use the toilet?_ Beca stopped in her tracks, frowning with the awareness of something that doesn't make sense, knowledge yet to fall into a recognisably logical pattern. The answer was obvious, but it was not one Beca was ready to contemplate.

“Beca! Where's the loo? I really need a pee!” Fat Amy hurried by at a brisk waddle, not stopping to heed Beca's directions.

“First door on the left,” Beca called after her friend with an amused grin, continuing on her way back to the after party. She was overwhelmed by an intense need to see Jesse. Right now. He was her anchor, her reassuringly _there_ rock.

The roar of music and crowd, the heated pressure of many sweaty, dancing bodies, the pervading scent of alcohol. Beca hesitated just inside the door of the hotel function hall, scanning the crowd for Jesse or the Bellas. She could see Chloe, vibrant red mane making her easy to spot, and Beca began to make her way through the crowd towards her friend. Despite losing sight of her mutliple times between the swirling bodies, she eventually elbowed aside one of DSM's burly baritones and grabbed Chloe's arm, determined not to be swept away into the crowd.

“Have you seen Jesse anywhere?”

Chloe twirled Beca around, laughing elatedly, and pointed towards the far corner of the hall. “Over there!”

Beca grinned, nodded, and disentangled herself from Chloe, beginning another journey through the sea of sweaty bodies.

Jesse, it turned out, was chatting with Pieter, DSM's other lead. Beca slid in beside her boyfriend, nodding at the tall German and relaxing into Jesse's side as his arm came around her shoulders. She fit here. It was nice. Normal. Easy. She tried to tune into their conversation – it turned out they both followed baseball – but tuned out again just as quickly when she realised their topic.

Beca watched the ebb and flow of the crowd, and breathed deeply, trying to shake the itching sensation between her shoulder blades telling her she was being watched. The room was packed with people; it was highly unlikely that anyone was specifically watching _her._

A statuesque figure glided out of the mass of bodes, clarifying into Kommissar, all imposing height, and fierce gaze, and Beca swallowed, avoiding the older woman's eyes as she tried to look interested in the guys' conversation. Of course, she was not going to be allowed to ignore Kommissar. The blonde came to stand beside her fellow lead, direct gaze settling on Jesse.

Pieter conducted the requisite introductions, and then fell back into the rhythm of conversation. Beca felt Jesse tense whenever Kommissar looked into his eyes, as though he wasn't sure what to do about the intimidating German, and she sympathised with him with all her heart. She didn't know what to do about her, either.


	3. Chapter Three

Beca shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore the smirking, knowing looks Kommissar kept shooting at her as she stood with Jesse's arm around her. Beca could feel her cheeks heating up as she recalled their encounter in the bathroom, and, well... every encounter they'd ever had. The older blonde evidently seemed incapable of staying out of Beca's personal space.

Beca found herself watching Kommissar, observing her steady confidence, the casual grace, and easy intelligence in her eyes. Everything just seemed... simple, for her. From the graceful roll of her wrist as she expressed a point, to the unfailingly direct way her eyes met others', as though nothing and no one could ever intimidate her. Beca swallowed, becoming increasingly aware of her own... shortcomings. Her lack of height, her angular features, prominent teeth, thin lips. She could feel herself almost shrinking into Jesse's side, as though seeking reassurance.

The Kommissar, sensing Beca's scrutiny, raked her eyes over the younger girl, then dismissively turned back to the conversation. Beca straightened indignantly, dislodging Jesse's arm in the process, and tried to pick up the thread of the conversation. They were talking about choreography, and Beca strangled a laugh. Only a capella boys could talk about choreography without sounding irretrievably gay. 

“I'm gonna grab a drink, be right back,” Beca stepped away from Jesse and threaded her way through the fringes of the crowd, hunting for the bar. She desperately craved fresh air and a cool drink.

* * *

“Why are you so sad, tiny maus?”

Beca jumped, the cold night air rushing into her lungs in a gasp, champagne sloshing over the sides of the cheap plastic cup she was holding. “God, can you not sneak up on me like that?”

“And so jumpy,” Kommissar mocked as she crossed the balcony to lean against the railing opposite Beca.

The smaller girl gritted her teeth and took a tiny sip of her drink, refusing to meet the German's eyes.

“You should be happy, darling; you beat us. No one beats us. Achieving the impossible is usually met with great satisfaction. _You_ are not satisfied. Why?”

“Why do you care whether I'm happy or not?” Beca burst out, tired of dealing with the confusing woman, “Especially since we beat DSM. Shouldn't you be sulking back to Germany with your tails between your legs?”

“...we do not _have_ tails. But I think I understand your meaning,” Kommissar shrugged gracefully, “Finding a worthy opponent is always to be celebrated. I tell the truth when I say DSM has never been beaten. Well... not for a _very_ long time, anyway. I had begun to find competition boring, in truth.”

“Oh,” Beca glanced down at her cup, unsure how to respond. “You're... very competitive. I just assumed you wouldn't like having competition if it meant you might lose.”

“Do not misunderstand me; I _hate_ to lose. But winning every competition under the sun... let me just say... it loses its lustre after a while.”

Beca smiled slightly, “Yeah, I get that. For a while there we just kept winning and winning, and the only thrill left was in trying to outdo ourselves. Be better, bigger, flashier every time. It... kinda didn't work out that well for us.”

“Hm.”

Beca swallowed, becoming aware once again of how intimidatingly flawless the Kommissar was, standing against the railing with the moon at her back, haloing her head in gleaming blonde. 

A slow smirk curled across the older woman's face, turning her from striking, to irresistibly captivating.

“Enjoying the view?” she drawled, dipping her chin and showing her teeth in a predatory smirk, eyebrows raised in mocking question.

Beca looked away with a huff of incredulous laughter, “I don't think I've ever met anyone with your level of self-confidence,” she paused, “except, maybe, Fat Amy.”

The blonde tilted her head slightly, tongue curled behind her teeth, and stepped into Beca's space.

“Here we go,” Beca muttered, eyes sliding to the side as though they just couldn't find purchase on the other woman. 

Kommissar brushed the smaller girl's hair back gently, knuckles barely grazing her cheeks. Beca shivered and looked up involuntarily, meeting now-warm grey eyes.

“You hide yourself too much. All these walls. They do nothing but hold you back. Trap you in.”

Beca froze, like a mouse in shock, trapped under the paw of a cat.

Kommissar dropped her hands and stepped back, “Goodbye, little maus, I hope this is not the last we see of the Bellas.”


	4. Chapter 4

_“All these walls do nothing but hold you back. Trap you in.”_

Beca downed the last of her champagne and fell back against the wall, pressing her hands against the cool bricks with a huff of frustration. Her jaw tingled where Kommissar's smooth palms had pressed against her skin, and Beca swore she could still feel every curve and ridge of the German's fingerprints seared into her temples, though her fingertips had rested there so lightly. A flush of heat spread down her neck, burning a path along her skin, until it felt as though even her bones ached with need.

“Oh god, what's wrong with me,” Beca groaned, scrubbing at her face as though trying to wipe away the warmth left behind by Kommissar's hands. “And what the hell did she mean 'walls'? I don't have _walls!_ ”

The petite brunette, fortified by alcohol, pushed off from the wall behind her and marched back inside, determined to find her boyfriend and do something about this... confusion. But not before she'd had a couple more drinks.

The beat hit her hard as she left behind her fifth glass of whatever it was she'd ended up drinking (so maybe it took more than expected to shut up the horny voice in her head telling her to go find the German woman and... shut up, shut up!). She was swallowed whole by the crowd, until her world was only heat and bodies and music and flashes of light. Disoriented, Beca tried to elbow her way through the heaving mass, but her height left her at a serious disadvantage. Her head was spinning, her feet missing the ground more often than not, and she was being propped up by someone... tall. Someone who could carve a path for her through the bodies.

“Jesse,” she squinted up at her saviour, frowning when she didn't recognise him.

“Shh,” he murmured soothingly, half-dragging Beca away from the crowd. 

The small girl tried to blink away the blackness, but it just kept coming, kept narrowing her field of vision until she couldn't keep her eyes open. The music was a blur of sound that started to fade as the air changed from hot, sweaty dance floor to... cool, air-conditioned corridor. “Wait, where are we going, I don't want to go with you,” she managed to slur, though wrangling her tongue into forming the words took considerable effort.

“Just _what_ is going on here,” an authoritative voice broke through Beca's haze, and she managed to force her eyes open just enough to see blonde and black.

“She's had a bit too much to drink, I'm just taking her up to her room,” a placating male voice came from near Beca's ear. She could feel the voice in her chest, and became aware of being held up by someone, of the smell of aftershave – not Jesse's – and the heat of an arm wrapped around her torso like a vice.

Beca made the herculean effort of opening her eyes fully for just a moment, and was greeted with the welcome sight of the Kommissar standing before her, eyebrows raised in patent disbelief. “Kommissar?”

“ _I_ will take her to her room,” there was a pause, “Paul. _You_ should return to the bar.”

“Okay, I was just trying to help! Jeeze!”

Beca muttered 'cinnamon' as she was transferred from 'Paul' to the Kommissar, and she leaned gratefully into the blonde, squinting up at her with adoring eyes, “Your lips are really sexy.”

Kommissar smirked slightly, “Thankyou.”

Beca's eyes closed again, and all she knew was sensation (the secure strength of the arm around her back, the burning heat of the hand pressing against her waist to hold her up, serving only to turn her legs to jelly even more, the firm warmth of the body next to her) and sound (where is your room key?) and smell (cinnamon and vodka, and the faintest hint of perfume).


	5. Chapter Five

Her back hit the bed, and Beca giggled hazily as someone unzipped her high heeled boots, and edged them off her feet, the scrape of leather against her soles making her flinch. “Tickles.”

She was propped up, and soft fingers grazed the back of her neck, hairs rising in their wake. “What are you doing?”

“Removing your jewellery.”

“Oh,” Beca nodded slowly, “Are you robbing me?”

“Why would anyone rob you of your tacky...” a huffed sigh, “...nevermind.”

Beca sighed with relief as she was laid back down, the fingers now at her wrist. She really shouldn't be enjoying the attention so much, but it felt so nice to be taken care of. It had been years since anyone had...

“Ohhh, I don't feel so good,” Beca groaned, struggling to sit up.

“I am not surprised.” 

“No really, not good, not good,” Beca clenched her teeth tight and tried to force back a wave of nausea. Her eyes burst open and she became aware of being half-walked half-dragged across the hotel room and collapsing in front of the toilet bowl.

From there nothing made it past the alcohol into her long term memory, though she had a vague impression of someone holding her hair and muttering a combination of soothing phrases in English and less soothing, irritated-sounding German.

* * *

Pieter eyed her oddly as she entered their shared room, though his gaze was significantly less piercing than it might have been had he not been thoroughly drunk, and had it not been three in the morning. 

“Vhere have you been, Luisa?” 

The blonde arched an eyebrow at her lieutenant, “None of your business.” 

“Vell, vell, vell... I'm sure I know already,” he winked and laid back on his bed, curiosity satisfied. 

The Kommissar snorted indelicately at him, and headed to the bathroom to shower. Pieter always thought he knew everything. The fact that he was often correct was irrelevant. 

* * *

“Beca, what the hell?” 

Beca flinched and hid under the covers as the curtains were yanked back, unceremoniously bathing the hotel room in brilliant sunlight. 

“Chloe? Can you please shut the curtains,” she whispered from beneath the safety of her blankets. 

“Umm, how about... no?” 

The covers were yanked back and Beca cringed into a foetal ball of misery, staring helplessly at Chloe as her mind scrabbled to catch up. What had she done to make the redhead so angry? And why was she so hungover? 

“You have some explaining to do. But take those first.” Chloe rolled her eyes and pointed to a glass of water and some tylenol on the bedside table. 

Beca did as she was told, downing the pills while Chloe took a seat on the bed beside her legs. 

“Uhh, so what am I explaining, again? I'm confused,” Beca frowned, wishing Chloe would take pity on her and close the goddamn curtains already. 

“You disappeared from the party last night, which is fine, except Jesse had no idea where you were, nor did any of the Bellas. You just vanished! We were so worried about you! Then we called your cell, and guess who answered?” 

Beca swallowed thickly, took another sip of water, and tried vainly to remember the night before. Her cheeks flushed as she recalled her encounters with the Kommissar, and she looked down at her hands, studiously avoiding Chloe's gaze. “The last thing I remember is looking for Jesse. Wait. How did I get up to our room-?” 

“Ohhh,” Beca breathed, remembering fingers on her neck, the smell of cinnamon and mint and strawberries. 

“Why were you up here with _her_ , of all people?” Chloe fumed, seeming genuinely distressed by the notion. 

Beca shrugged, then winced at the motion. Everything hurt. “I think she just helped me get up here. I was... _extremely_ drunk last night.” 

“But... why would she help you? She's our enemy!” 

“Chloe, calm down. We won. It's fine. She was just being a decent person and helping a girl out, okay?” Beca tried not to let the words have any affect on her. Semi-successfully. 

“Okay, fine, I guess,” Chloe stood up, smoothing her skirt as though arranging her clothes would put her world back in order. “It just seems strange, that's all. And we were really worried something had happened to you.” 

“Uh-huh. Could you... close the curtains now? Please?” 


	6. Chapter 6

Sunglasses firmly in place, tylenol battling valiantly against the vodka (was it vodka?) still in her system, Beca listlessly followed her fellow Bellas through the lobby of their hotel, desperately wishing she were not being dragged along on this sight-seeing excursion. Fat Amy wasn't coming! Just because Bumper had proposed the night before _(and I fucking missed it because I was drunk off my ass over that tall, gorgeous- Beca! Enough mental drooling!)._

It was decided - after a slightly traumatised Chloe backed out of the couple's room, face bright red – that they were too busy gettin' busy to be disturbed for sightseeing.

Chloe dropped back to walk beside Beca, a deeply thoughtful expression on her face. Beca adjusted her sunglasses and waited for the redhead to speak her mind. She really, really hoped it wasn't going to be about last night.

“Y'know Beca,” Chloe began, still staring into the distance, “Bumper is really _hung._ ”

Beca flinched in surprised disgust, “Oh my god. No, Chloe, I don't want to know what you saw this morning. Don't you dare even think about it-”

“Okay, okay. It's just... this is a lot of weight for one person to carry. Those images, they're not fading, y'know?”

Beca stifled a pained laugh and patted her friend on the back, “Please try and manage on your own, though, okay, Chlo?”

So distracted was she by unwanted mental pictures, that Beca didn't even see the German team until the Kommissar and her Lieutenant were practically upon them. 

“Bellas,” the blonde greeted, voice neutral and unconcerned.

Beca took in the sight of the woman before her, the platinum hair pulled back into a stern bun, black t-shirt (are they not _allowed_ to wear anything but black?), and jeans hugging her curves. Beca swallowed, pushed up her sunglasses, and tried not to visibly react, but her brain seemed to shut down whenever she was anywhere near the Kommissar. It seemed being sober also didn't help matters. 

Chloe watched Beca, waiting for her to do or say something (even if it was an insult-compliment), but the Bellas' lead appeared to have been rendered mute.

Kommissar stepped forward slowly, eyes trained on Beca. “Nothing to say, little maus?”

Beca pressed her lips together and shook her head, desperately trying not to let go of the stream of embarrassing compliments just waiting to be released.

“Oh well,” Kommissar reached out and ran the backs of her fingers over Beca's cheek in what appeared to be a mocking parody of affection, “perhaps next time, hm?”

Beca inhaled sharply as the hand fell, trying not to lean into the touch. She barely noticed the small piece of paper being pressed into her hand as the Germans turned virtually as one, and marched away through the sliding doors. 

Beca desperately traced the disappearing Kommissar with her eyes, suddenly aware that she would likely never see the woman again. Her hand clenched around the piece of paper, and she silently stuffed it into her pocket, resolving not to look at it until later. An uncomfortable lump had formed in her throat, and she swallowed against it, slipping her sunglasses back into place to hide her eyes.

“Good riddance,” Chloe muttered, hooking her arm through Beca's and pulling her along to catch up with the rest of their group. “So when I opened the door, I swear to god, Bumper was...”


	7. Chapter 7

They stayed in Copenhagen for three more days, sightseeing and getting to know the city. Beca spent far more time than she wanted to searching for some sign of the Kommissar. Every flash of blonde in her peripheral vision, every time she glimpsed a figure even slightly as imposing as the German woman's. And every time she was disappointed. 

Das Sound Machine no doubt had many engagements to attend- this was their livelihood after all. The massive group had to support themselves somehow. Beca had often wondered over the last couple of days what it would be like to go pro. To dedicate her life to travelling the world, singing a capella. It would be an incredible ride, she mused. 

But it wasn't her end goal. It didn't lead to producing music, so there was no point considering it, really. That didn't mean she could stop thinking about it altogether, though. Of course, the frequency of her thoughts on the subject might also have had to do with just how often her mind wandered to DSM's lead. 

_God, stop it brain! Enough. She's gone, they're gone. It's time to get back to real life._

And so she did. With a paid internship in New York- the opportunity to collaborate with artists in the studio, and learn through hands on experience what it meant to be a music producer. 

Beca was in her element.

Things with Jesse were... easy enough. They had moved in together and Jesse was working part time in a restaurant kitchen while also composing music for student films as a means of gaining experience in the field he truly wanted to break into.

Everything worked. Her life sat perfectly on the path she had envisioned for herself. Comfortable, easy, moving forward with just the right amount of momentum. It was perfect. Really.

* * *

Beca glanced at Jesse from her position on the couch beside him, casually swinging her feet up onto the cushions and turning her body so that her back was supported by the arm rest, and her laptop could sit on her legs, screen facing away from Jesse. She checked again, just to make sure he was still watching whatever movie was on tv at the moment, and typed 'Das Sound Machine' into youtube's search bar. She refocused on the screen, and her heart thumped harder in her chest as she clicked on the newest video. Adjusting her ear buds, Beca enlarged the video to full screen and allowed herself to be pulled into the world of flashing lights, perfect synchronisation, and rich harmonies. And Kommissar. 

It was pure joy to be able to forget about everything else for a while and listen to her voice, watch her move. Beca paused for a moment on a close up of the German's face, and traced the bold, striking lines of her cheekbones with her eyes. She shivered, remembering being so close she could feel the heat radiating off Kommissar's skin, and the alarming pleasure of having those ice blue eyes, and all the fierce intelligence behind them, focused solely on her.

“Becs, you ready for bed?” Jesse had turned off the tv and was making his way around the couch. Beca jumped and hurriedly tabbed out to facebook, praying that her face didn't look as warm as it felt.

“Nah, I'm gonna stay up for a while. You go ahead, though,” she tried to act normal, but found herself making smiling eye contact where she would normally just wave vaguely and continue with whatever was occupying her attention at the time.

Jesse hesitated for a moment, obviously noting the awkwardness, before nodding and wishing her goodnight.

Beca relaxed, exhaling quietly with relief as her boyfriend made his way into their bedroom. It had been easy enough at first to just not think about Kommissar. There'd been the excitement of getting her internship, the stress of moving to New York and leaving her friends behind, the complete newness of everything – having bills to pay and their own apartment to take care of. But a year down the line, everything had settled. The internship was challenging and fascinating, and exactly what she'd hoped it would be. They were making just enough money to afford the rent on their apartment and have a little left over to go out most weekends. Jesse was great. He was her rock; steady and uncomplicated. Her best friend.

But then she'd seen a poster in the staffroom at work about an a capella group looking for new members. 

And then 'My Songs Know What You Did In the Dark' came on the radio as she sat in traffic on the way home. 

And the temptation to see just what Das Sound Machine had been up to over the past year and a half nagged at her, until she'd finally given in and googled them. Which, of course, had lead to youtube. Which had lead to what she felt was a rather unhealthy addiction; watching the group perform via shaky phone cameras at car shows and corporate events. It was her guilty secret, which she usually indulged in while Jesse was occupied taking notes on movie scores.

Beca sighed heavily and closed her laptop. She didn't want to go to bed until she was sure Jesse would be asleep, just in case he wanted sex. Her attraction to Jesse had been fading for a long while, and was now officially nonexistent. And because she still loved him, it was so hard to just say no night after night. They were on borrowed time, Beca knew, but she desperately didn't want it to be over. He was her best friend, and she wasn't sure what she would do without him. 

And then there was the fact that neither of them could afford to live in New York on their own, unless they roomed with strangers, and Beca was not in love with that idea.

The brunette groaned and rubbed her eyes, glancing at the clock. 11.03. At least tomorrow was saturday, so she wouldn't have to be up at six in order to make it to the studio by eight.

Her mind wandered back to the last time she had seen Das Sound Machine. To the note Kommissar had pressed into her hand. She unfolded her legs and padded over to the dining table where her purse sat, opening the credit card compartment with uncertain fingers. Her Starbucks loyalty card hid something far more precious behind it; a worn piece of paper that had the softness of something handled often and with reverence. 

With careful fingers, Beca smoothed the note out on the table and traced her eyes over the familiar letters.

lkommissar@gmail.com 

She swallowed heavily, taking the note back to the couch and powering up her laptop again. Every move of her index finger over the trackpad was slow, as though at any moment she would change her mind. Hell, she expected to change her mind. How often had she sat here, Outlook open, cursor flashing in the To: field, waiting to find the courage to lay her fingers to the keyboard and actually follow through.

Her fingers found the keys and began typing.

To: lkommissar@gmail.com  
From: b.mitchell91@gmail.com

_Subject: Hey_

_Hey, long time no see :)_

_Thanks for taking care of me that night after Worlds last year. I guess I probably should have thanked you sooner, huh?_

_How is DSM going?_

_-Beca Mitchell_

Before she could change her mind or edit the email into non-existence, Beca pressed send and slammed her laptop closed, heart beating in her throat. 

“What am I doing?” she muttered as a wave of regret washed over her. Kommissar had no doubt moved on to psyching out many other a capella nerds with her overwhelmingly attractive self since Worlds. Beca doubted she had given a second thought to the short girl who spewed compliments in place of insults.

At least, that's what she told herself as she plugged her laptop in to charge and changed into her pyjamas, ruthlessly squashing the tiny butterfly wings of hope that kept fluttering in her chest.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning Beca woke early after having lain rigidly sleepless for hours, forcing her restless body to remain still while her mind replayed every encounter she had ever had with Kommissar on a never-ending loop. She slid out of bed, grabbed her laptop and headed for the kitchen, grateful that Jesse was a deep sleeper. 

Taking a seat at the small dining table, Beca opened her laptop and waited for it boot up with bated breath. _Don't get your hopes up, don't get your hopes up,_ she chanted silently, as her emails send-received. 

**Fat Amy Allen also commented on Chloe Beale's photo.  
New message from Chloe Beale  
Re: Hey**

Breath stuck in her lungs, Beca scrolled through the multitude of Facebook notifications and opened 'Re: Hey' with trepidation and intense curiosity.

To: b.mitchell91@gmail.com  
From: lkommissar@gmail.com   
Subject: Hey

_Tiny mouse! It is good to hear from you. I assumed you would never contact me – it has been some time since the Worlds._

_You are welcome for the taking care of- however I would have liked to be thanked in person ;)_

_DSM is well. We are winning, as usual. And – correct me if I am wrong with saying – we are making 'more money than god'._

Beca paused here to snort with stifled laughter. That ego! She might have forgotten about that particular aspect of the German's personality to some degree.

_How are things with you? Are you still singing a-capella? I should very much like to compete against you again._

_The Kommissar_

Beca exhaled a sigh of relief. Kommissar hadn't forgotten her, and didn't seem to miss a beat, picking up the thread of their connection as though it had never been lost.

To: lkommissar@gmail.com  
From: b.mitchell91@gmail.com   
Subject: Hey

_Yeah, sorry it took so long to get in contact. Life's been pretty busy since I moved to New York._

_Things are good. I'm working at a record label called AudioRush, learning to produce music, which is fantastic. It's exactly what I've always wanted._

_I'm not singing at the moment. I'd like to get back to it, but I've been hella busy lately, so not sure a rematch is gonna happen any time soon!_

_If you ever feel like sharing that DSM money, you know where I am!  
Where are you at the moment?_

_Beca_

_P.S. Do you have a real name? Or does everyone just call you 'the Kommissar'?_

“You're up early, Becs,” Jesse commented as he entered the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Yeah, I couldn't sleep last night. Figured I might as well get up rather than toss and turn for a few more hours,” Beca laughed slightly awkwardly as she closed Outlook and opened Facebook.

“Any reason you couldn't sleep?”

“No just one of those things, y'know.”

“Okay,” Jesse smiled sweetly at her as he sipped his coffee, leaning back against the kitchen counter. 

Beca swallowed uncomfortably, tucking her hair behind her ear and looking back at the computer screen. Jesse trusted her so completely that it made her head hurt to think about how she was going to hurt him. _Borrowed time, Beca. You're on borrowed time._

“Got anything planned for today?”

The brunette shrugged noncommitally, focusing her attention on Stacie's newest set of photos. It turned out the girl was a decent photographer. “Not really. Did you have something in mind?”

* * *

As it turned out, Jesse did have something in mind; a romantic elevator ride up to the 86th floor observation deck of the Empire State Building. Beca endured the hand at the small of her back, the soulful looks, and the requisite kiss once they reached the observation deck, because in no way was it Jesse's fault that she just wasn't in love with him anymore. Of course, her loving boyfriend noticed her reluctance, the way she moved away from the pressure of his hand, his presence, rather than of into it. But instead of asking her about it, he simply gave her some space and fell into the role of best friend instead of boyfriend. He was used to doing this, after all- Beca had never been particularly consistent in the way she experienced their relationship. So he had learned all her signals off by heart; he knew when to push and when to give her room to be alone. And boy was Beca a champion at being alone, even when he was in the same room as her. The same bed. 

Beca, for her part, resisted the urge to check her email every five minutes, and felt she did an admirable job of being only as taciturn as was usual for her when she was in an anti-social mood. Of course, every time Jesse made her laugh, or stayed away from her even when she could tell he wanted to get closer, a stab of guilt assailed her. This man knew her so well, accepted her moods, despite how difficult she could be at times. He loved her. And it was so hard to contemplate giving that up.

But it wasn't fair to him, if she let this drag on for too long. He could be out there finding the real love of his life, the one who would love him back in equal measure, if he wasn't stuck with her. Humouring her, loving her from a considerate distance.

Not today, though.


	9. Chapter 9

To: b.mitchell91@gmail.com  
From: lkommissar@gmail.com   
Subject: Hey

_It is good that you are doing what you want. It is most important to enjoy one's work. I have never heard of 'AudioRush'. Are they any good?_

_I am disappointed to hear that we will not meet in competition again soon. I would enjoy beating you._

_I am afraid you would have to join DSM to share in our profits and I feel certain you would not survive our rigorous training regimen, little mouse._

_New York is an interesting city, yes?_

_The Kommissar_

_P.S. I do indeed have a 'real' name. We shall see if you earn the right to know it ;)_

Beca snickered dorkily at that last line and read through the email again, hearing Kommissar's voice in every word, every turn of phrase.

To: lkommissar@gmail.com  
From: b.mitchell91@gmail.com   
Subject: Hey

_AudioRush is a good label – they have a few big names signed to them and a bunch of up and comers as well. I'm learning a lot more about the business side of producing music than thought I would ever need to, though!_

_So I wouldn't survive your training regimen, huh? You never saw our old leader Aubrey run a training session. I think you'd be impressed. Pretty sure she has some German in her ;)_

_You're so cocky! You didn't beat us last time. What makes you think you could in future?_

_New York is interesting, although I'm not a big fan of being surrounded by so many people at all times, tbh._

_Beca_

_P.S. What would I have to do to 'earn' this right? ;)_

To: b.mitchell91@gmail.com  
From: lkommissar@gmail.com   
Subject: Hey

_I am absolutely certain DSM would beat the Bellas now that you have handed over leadership to that giraffe-legged girl._

_This 'Aubrey' I am certain could not lift a candle to the intensity I demand of DSM. It would be fun to see you try to keep up, though._

_Cocky? No. Just aware of my team's prodigious skill._

_I may have to visit New York again soon._

_Kommissar_

_P.S. Oh, I don't know... I'm sure I could think of something ;)_

To: lkommissar@gmail.com  
From: b.mitchell91@gmail.com   
Subject: Hey

_Giraffe legged girl? Like you can talk, miss 'my legs go on forever and ever'._

_I'd love to show you around the city. Let me know if you decide to visit :)_

To: b.mitchell91@gmail.com  
From: lkommissar@gmail.com   
Subject: Hey

_Ah yes, but my legs are toned to perfection. Hers are... stick-like._

_I would enjoy that, too, tiny mouse_

* * *

Beca thoroughly enjoyed being able to converse with Kommissar without unintentional compliments interrupting the flow of conversation. If she ever caught herself gushing (which usually occurred if she had just watched DSM perform before writing to her), she could just go back and delete the embarrassing bits before sending the email. It was, in her opinion, a much better form of communication considering her unfortunate penchant for insult-compliments where the gorgeous German was concerned.

Months passed and Beca fell into a routine of emailing Kommissar before bed every night (with a glass of wine), and again in the morning (with a cup of coffee). She gradually learned a little more about the mysterious woman- that her first name began with L (Kommissar insisted that she had only earned one letter so far), that she was an only child, that she had gone to college at some place called the Hochschule für Musik und Theater München (which was apparently kind of a big deal), that she loved doughnuts, and that she managed to be a terrible flirt even solely through the medium of text (it was also possible that Beca was reading into things a little).

Of course, Jesse noticed Beca pulling further and further away from him. At first he gave her room to be alone. She needed that sometimes. But when she didn't come back to him after weeks of being distant, he started to worry. This wasn't just Beca being moody; this was something else, something bigger and scarier and much more threatening.

“Becs, what's goin' on lately? You've been kinda distant for a while now...?”

Beca looked up from her muffin, face blank, “Nothing's going on. I'm fine.”

“Okay, but you don't seem fine. Well you do, actually – which is kind of worrying. But the distant thing? I'm pretty sure I'm not imagining it.”

Beca swallowed, a slow creep of adrenaline drawing tension into her body, ready to run. Because this conversation was _not_ one she knew how to have. And a crowded cafe was for sure not the best location for it, which was quite possibly why Jesse was bringing it up here. It was safer here- not quite as frightening.

Jesse was watching her patiently, but Beca couldn't meet his eyes. She stared at her choc chip muffin for a while, and when she tried to look up at him she only got as far as the doughnut he was agitatedly picking apart with his fingers.

“I don't think we work anymore, Jesse. Not like we used to,” she whispered, trying not to let the words escape, but needing them out of her all the same.

The fingers stilled. A reflexive twitch crushed a bit of doughy pastry flat, and then he was standing up, brushing off his hands, walking away.

Beca shivered, pulling her jacket tighter, and remained in her seat, watching him go (even from behind she could tell his jaw was clenched). Her mind was curiously blank. She'd been waiting for this, unprepared and dreading it, but waiting just the same. 

Jesse needed time to process, and Beca didn't want to go home, so she stayed where she was. Watched the city, observed the people around her – adults and kids and couples and teenagers. She didn't feel it yet, the enormity of what had just occurred. She knew the feelings would come soon enough.

* * *

His bags were by the door. His dvd collection missing from the cabinet under the tv. He was doing... something, in their bedroom (her bedroom). Beca stood in the kitchen, arms clenched around her, every muscle tense with unhappiness. 

There had been only a little shouting; Jesse couldn't understand why they had drifted apart – why she had drifted away from him, why she wouldn't even try to fix it. 

And sometimes Beca just desperately wanted to say it was all a mistake – 'it's fine', 'I don't know, I just freaked out, I guess'. But she couldn't. Even if she had never met Kommissar, she would still have met someone someday who made her heart beat fast, who gave her butterflies, and invaded her every thought, and made her spill compliments all over the place in a mess of sparkling words. And that person had never been Jesse. He'd worn her down, persistently attentive, and fun, and funny, and warm. He cared. It almost made her cry bitter, self-pitying tears, that all she wanted was someone who _cared._

Until she realised she could have more. And then the one who cared wasn't enough. She wanted all that passion, that giddy, ridiculous happiness as well.

“I am the _worst_ person,” she whispered to herself.


	10. Chapter 10

Beca found that she could afford the apartment on her own, as long as she was willing to forgo anything resembling a social life. That was fine with her- she had no real friends in New York yet. There were her co-workers, whom she got along with well enough, but no one close enough to call a friend. 

Her life revolved around work, skype chats with Chloe and Fat Amy, and emailing Kommissar. They never progressed to talking over the phone, or skyping, or even messaging on Facebook. Kommissar never suggested anything more, and neither did Beca. It would complicate something that worked just fine as is, and Beca really wasn't interested in complicated.

She told herself this was enough. This was what she wanted. 

So she jogged every morning, pushed herself until her lungs screamed and her heart pounded. Went in to work already tired from lack of sleep and a punishing workout. Fuelled herself with coffee and music, and pushed thoughts of Jesse and Kommissar out of her mind. Jesse was in the past. Kommissar was a world away. 

The quiet of the early hours woke her every night, when the drowsing effect of the wine wore off. She tossed and turned throughout the remaining darkness until her alarm went off at five, and she was released from her restless attempts at resting. 

Her co-workers invited her out to drinks every friday night, and eventually Beca gave in. She observed more than participated and mostly drank water, or the very cheapest beer if the waitress evil-eyed her enough. Once a month was Karaoke friday, and somehow it had gotten around the office that Beca could not only sing, but had actually, like, won awards for it. Which was highly embarrassing, especially when it resulted in her being peer-pressured into singing 'My Humps' in front of a bunch of people she would have to continue seeing every day for the foreseeable future.

Winter came, cold and grey, stripping colour from the world with icy fingers. Beca continued her her own colourless life, only finding herself in the vibrant artistry of the music she helped to produce. The regular skype chats became less and less frequent, emails to Kommissar shorter and rarer. It didn't occur to Beca that she was unhappy, that she was pushing people away. She was far too busy to notice.

* * *

Beca hurried along the sidewalk, blowing steam off the top of her coffee as she wound through the busy morning crowd. The sky hung low overhead, heavy with clouds, and a brisk breeze tossed her hair across her face, dunking the tips of a couple strands in the steaming cup. “Ugh,” she muttered, pushing her hair back behind her ears impatiently, as she ducked across the pavement and through the doors into the warmth of AudioRush's modest foyer.

A glance at her watch confirmed what she already knew; “Shit, I'm late.” She blew past reception and climbed the stairs two at a time to reach the second floor meeting room. She crossed the hall and shouldered the door open, eyes on her dangerously full coffee cup, spare hand rummaging in her bag for a notepad and pen, vaguely aware of the murmuring of her colleagues. 

It was as she finally looked up to find a seat, that it all went wrong. Her eyes skimmed the long conference table, settling on the only free seat for a fraction of a second before flicking to the figure beside it- _Kommissar?_ Which was when her entire body malfunctioned; her feet forgot how to move in coordination with one another, her fingers lost their grip on her coffee cup, and she met the floor in an ungainly, coffee-splashed heap.

Applause and laughter broke out across the room, and Beca hastily scrambled to her feet, trying to force the blush out of her cheeks as her mind worked overtime.

“You okay, Mitchell?” One of her co-workers asked, concern mixed with a good helping of amusement.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Beca threw an embarrassed grin at the guy, “I'll just go clean up. Be right back.”

As she hurried from the room, Beca swore she could feel Kommissar's eyes burning a hole in her spine, but she was determined not to give in and glance back.

In the bathroom, Beca wet some hand towels and started sponging the coffee from her blouse as best she could, while her mind tried to process what had just happened. 

Kommissar... here? At AudioRush? The meeting this morning was supposed to be about a new record deal- obviously that was why she was here, but...

_Why didn't she tell me?_

Beca tossed the paper towels in the trash, straightened her shoulders - grimacing at the ugly stain on her shirt that stared back at her from the mirror - and rallied whatever self confidence she could muster. Yeah, she was surprised, but she was a professional- right?

Walking back into the conference room was not the easiest thing Beca had ever done. Her eyes immediately sought out Kommissar, of course, despite her admonitions to herself not too appear too eager. It was impossible not to stare a little, though. Seeing Kommissar in person was a whole lot different to seeing her as a distant figure on a screen. 

She looked good, of course, blonde hair in a severe bun that only made her cheekbones appear more impressive. Her eyes were brilliant blue, outlined with militarily precise strokes of fine black eyeliner. She was, naturally, wearing black. And, also naturally, Pieter was by her side. 

All seats in the room were taken, except for the one on Kommissar's right. Beca intercepted the reflexively anxious frown that tried to take hold of her face, smoothing her features out into something resembling a professional facade, and strode around the table to take her seat. She could feel her temperature rise when her shoulder brushed against Kommissar's as she sat down. This meeting would be interesting, to say the least.

Beca's poker face mustn't have been quite up to par, because Kommissar leaned over and murmured in her ear, “You'll live, little mouse,” and the cascade of warm breath drew a blush to Beca's cheeks. Beca flashed the blonde a warning look, which she took in stride, pressing her lips together in a knowing smirk, and turning her attention back to the discussions that were taking place around the room.

The meeting passed far too quickly for Beca's liking- she would have much preferred to have more time to adjust to the idea that DSM would be recording an album with AudioRush. That Kommissar would be here, in the studios, around the office, virtually every day for the next several weeks. Why she required so much time to process this was a subject she was still vainly trying to avoid confronting, but it reared its head every time Kommissar's shoulder brushed hers, or a waft of perfume underpinned with cinnamon reached her nose, short-circuiting her brain and making her cheeks heat uncomfortably.

The gist of the meeting went straight over Beca's head, until she heard herself being named as associate producer, at which point her world snapped back into focus, and she found herself in the grip of a strange combination of anxiety and excitement. Anxiety, because that would mean working closely with Kommissar – and ignoring the effect the magnificent German woman had on her was damn hard work – and excitement because this would be only her third time as an associate producer on a large project. She was intensely relieved it would not be her first – she didn't particularly relish the thought of being even slightly incompetent in front of the Kommissar.

People were rising from their seats, and Beca realised she should do the same, frowning as she recognised how content she had been, luxuriating in the faint warmth radiating off the body next to her and observing the frankly impressive way Kommissar had handled the various record executives. She had been blunt, honest, and uncompromising. She knew precisely what she wanted, and wasn't going to be swayed by someone telling her there might be an easier way. Kommissar didn't take the easy way out, it seemed. Pieter kept his mouth shut for the most part, preferring to be a silently intimidating presence.

Finally, Beca rose and gathered her unused notepad and pen, tucking them away in her bag. She turned around to come face-to-chest with Kommissar.

“So, we will be working together,” the blonde announced smirkily, blue eyes full of something close to victory.

Beca swallowed back her first response (your bone structure is flawless), and forced herself to come up with an alternative. “Yeah, I guess we will.”

Kommissar's smirk faded, her eyes going soft and slightly vulnerable, “You do not seem excited about this.”

Beca's heart thudded strongly in her chest, a bright, burning hurt under her breastbone, “Why didn't you tell me you were coming here? A little warning would've been nice.” 

The blonde laid one hand on Beca's shoulder and squeezed lightly, “You stopped speaking to me weeks ago, little maus. I was afraid if you knew, you would not be happy. You would... disappear. I am glad now that I did not tell you before, because I can see that you want to run.”

Beca swallowed heavily, response choked in her throat. She breathed deeply, trying to clear the way for her voice, but she only succeeded in adding cinnamon to the mix. She finally exhaled a tiny, “Oh.”

“Kommissar, we must be going,” Pieter interrupted delicately, obviously loathe to interrupt whatever was happening between the two women.

Kommissar lowered her hand, letting her fingers graze Beca's arm as she did so, and turned to leave with Pieter. “I will see you tomorrow morning, little maus. Bright and early!”

Beca managed a small smile at that, and responded to Pieter's jovial wave with her own notably less enthusiastic one.

_Oh god, how do I do this?_


End file.
